Breathe Me
by Gracie Holmes
Summary: Sherlock and Natasha have made a home and family together, chasing each other like the enigma they were. But when people from Natasha's past steal away the person she loves most, she is lost. Her life, and the life of their young son, will never be the same. Established pairing, Alternate Universe, Major Character Death, Cover art by Best Damn Avocado.
1. Chapter 1

_**Authors Note** : This is an established pairing fic, set in an Alternate Universe where they've been married for years, Mary never died, and where Mycroft also has a wife and child. Based on events in The Convergence Roleplay Forum and headcanons with Best Damn Avocado (Angie). Mycroft's wife is based on Supernatural's Naomi. _

_While the setup to the events in this story could have been include in many other chapters, it wasn't the focus I wanted. There are several other Natlock stories to check out if you wish to read a 'falling in love' story._

* * *

Natasha Romanov-Holmes tore through the old battleship, running faster than she ever had. Like a bullet loosed from a gun. Nothing had been more important than what lay trapped behind two inches of steel battleship door.

By the time she reached the door, the pounding of her heart was the only sound in her ears. Everything else had been muted like she was underwater. She slammed a miniature explosive charge on the door and it snapped open with a deep thud and an expansion of white fog.

The fog spoke of death. The gas that had filled it made her cough hacking breaths as she stepped inside, even as it dissipated in the negative pressure.

The light from the single bulb in the ceiling cast a ghostly haze over the too still body in the nearest corner. His mess of curls had matted with cold sweat, his face was turned downwards, his back did not rise or fall in breath. Her mind couldn't fathom why that would be. What could stop Sherlock Holmes? His strong arms had wrapped something up in his heavy coat as if trying to block out the poison gas.

Not something. _Someone._

Natasha collapsed just within reach, what little strength she had left dissipated like the gas that had taken them away.

* * *

 _\- Too Many Minutes Earlier -_

In a maniacal effort, Sherlock Holmes struggled with the locked door. His curly hair flopping over his forehead and his Belstaff swaying around him indicated the force of his attempts. But for all his strength and brains, he could do nothing against the steel trap.

" _NATASHA_!" He pounded his fist against the airtight container's only exit. The gas leaked in slowly through a vent that would have been just big enough for Basil their cat to squeeze through. Not a fully grown man.

"Daddy?"

Nor a five-year-old boy.

Sherlock should have accepted the facts as they were. There was no way out of this. He'd failed already. He'd failed hours ago when he'd not prevented Sterling's kidnapping. He'd failed when he sent Natasha one way and he'd gone the other. He'd failed when Sterling had been crying, and he'd failed when the Russian hitmen trapped both of them in this box of death.

None of this was about him, it was all about Natasha, and taking everything she loved away. They wanted to leave her alive, but alone. Kidnap the child, get to the husband, kill them both. Sherlock just hadn't been good enough to stop them.

He wished he had time to apologize to her. To hold her one more time.

There was a proper time to die, for everyone, for him. Today was his time. Not Sterling's. The small respirator mask in his coat would take care of that. The just in case measure would save the life he and his soulmate had made together against all odds.

He crouched so he could be eye-to-eye with his clever little boy, taking Sterling's head in his hands. The boy's green eyes had again filled with tears, and his whole body was shaking. He had to know exactly what was happening, he was too clever to miss it.

Sherlock's words were gentle. "Sterling, look at me."

"Daddy, I'm scared."

"I know," Sherlock breathed. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Sterling's. "I'm scared too. But we're going to be very brave now. I need you to listen to every word I say and do everything I tell you to do. Can you do that? Promise me."

Sterling's fingers flexed into Sherlock's coat. "I promise."

"Stay still."

Sherlock got the respirator out in a flurry of motion, fixing it firmly over Sterling's mouth and nose. It'd been something he'd snagged from Natasha's old S.H.I.E.L.D. supplies, meant for an adult, but could be modified and it had its own tiny supply of oxygen. Enough to keep Sterling alive for a short time. But it was not enough for the both of them. Not that there was any way Sherlock would risk taking it off of the child after the gas had come in.

"Close your eyes, Sterling, keep them closed whatever happens," Sherlock said gently.

Sterling stood very still, tears trailing down his cheeks. He nodded when Sherlock asked if he could breathe and reminded him to take slow breaths.

Sherlock stood up, glancing at the vent which still poured the fog of toxic gas out into the empty space. Inert gas to displace the oxygen in the room, with a toxic property to ensure they died. Also something new. He calculated the room would be full in four to eight minutes. Four to eight minutes to live, to hold his son, to prepare himself. He moved them to the corner furthest away from the vent and closest to the door. In the smallest hope, Natasha would find them in time. It was there he settled on the cold ground. "Come here," he said, gently tugging Sterling's hand and helping him settle on his lap. Just like they'd done a thousand times before. Except instead of reading a book or peeking at the microscope, they were preparing for Death's visit.

The boy was getting big. During the last trip to the doctor, they'd estimated he'd be as tall or taller than his father someday. Sherlock felt an intense sadness he'd not live to see the puzzle of this intriguing life grow. Too late for regret now, not when so much was at risk.

Sherlock wrapped Sterling up in his Belstaff, blocking out as much of the gas as he could that way too. And like a lid on a tea pot, Sherlock tucked his head overtop of Sterling and buried his nose in Sterling's curly dark hair, still faintly smelling of the hotel shampoo. He surrounded his son in a shield of his own body and his most precious garment. It might as well have been armor. He felt the quivering body he'd cared for and tickled and held. Fear so intense. Sterling was not going to be the same after tonight, Sherlock knew that much. He only hoped there'd be an understanding in time, he was doing what he had to.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Sterling?"

"I'm here." The words came muffled from inside Sherlock's coat and behind the respirator.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't want to see the darkness of his execution room. "William Sterling, I don't know what's going to happen next," he started quietly. "But your mother is going to come and find us, she's going to pull you out of this and bring you somewhere safe. I want you to try to sleep in the meantime. But when she finds you, I need you to tell her a few things for me, okay?"

"Why can't you tell her?"

Sherlock's already broken heart snapped completely in two. Tears burned his eyes, and he was confident it wasn't the leaking gas. "Because I…because I don't know if I'm going to make it out of this," he confessed. "But you _are_. With that mask, you can breathe. I am your father and I would do anything to keep you safe. That's what dads do. I don't want you to ever forget that. I love you so much."

Sterling's crying was audible and he shook like a leaf in Sherlock's arms.

"Shhh…." Sherlock knew the tears were out of pain and fear. He didn't try to stop them, just comfort through them. "I need you to tell Mummy that I love her too, okay? And that I'm sorry. None of this was her fault. Tell everyone we love that I loved you. Please, will you do this for me?"

"I…I pr-promise."

"Thank you." Sherlock coughed hoarsely, recalculating the time in his head. There was just never enough of it in the end. He needed more time. For his family: for Natasha and Sterling and John and Mary and Rosie and Mycroft. For his friends: for Molly and Greg and Mrs Hudson. If only he could just hold on a little longer.

But his great mind knew better.

His body shook with the effort but he didn't move from where he was his son's shield. "Sterling…I promise…I love you…don't forget that. Don't ever…forget. You're…going to be…amazing…You're mine, always will be…sleep now…I've got you…"

Sherlock's stream of words continued through the coughing until he just couldn't hang onto consciousness anymore. The gas filled his lungs, stealing his oxygen, slowing his brain, stopping his heart. Death by asphyxiation wasn't so bad. If he wasn't so damn afraid. _Oh God please let me live._

And there, still wrapped around like a vise to protect his greatest legacy and long minutes before help arrived, William Sherlock Scott Holmes' body stilled.

He would be found just too late by the woman who'd entered his mind and then heart many years before.


	2. Chapter 2

Her moment on the ground did not last long. Natasha scooted forward, hands reaching for him. For them. For the bodies of her boys.

"Sh...sher…" Natasha couldn't get his name out as she felt for a pulse along his neck. Nothing. Why was there nothing? There was no familiar pounding, not even a faint tremor she could feel there. Though she tried to deny the fact that Sherlock Holmes' huge heart could ever stop, the facts were there. He was gone. She pressed herself closer, as if she could curl up like a wolf around her dead mate and pup, and linger until her spirit faded too.

Tears fell and she made no move to stop them. Sherlock's head lulled when she tried moving him in search of their child. It was then caught sight of another mop of curly dark hair. Wrapped there in the facade of safety, was their little boy, tucked safe where his father had tried so hard to protect him. Natasha felt down in her very soul this was Sherlock's last attempt to save Sterling, doing whatever he could to fulfill his very last vow.

And yet she couldn't bear to check to see if their five-year-old still drew breath. Deep down she knew it had to be the faintest of hopes that Sterling hadn't succumbed to the fumes too. She would never recover.

However, even in his last conscious action, her beautiful man surprised her. The little bundle shifted. His voice was so very soft, muffled behind something. " _Mummy?"_

"Sterling." It came like a prayer, a confession, a gasp of relief. Natasha unwrapped her husband from around their son with as much gentleness as she could. His skin was clammy, his hair slightly wet, clothes wrinkled. And on his face was a breathing mask. _Oh Sherlock, you amazing man, always prepared, always ahead of the game. How can I do this without you?_

She held herself together by nothing but tattered ribbons and the fierce motherly need to hold her little boy. Sherlock's body fell backwards with a quiet thud as Natasha pulled Sterling into her arms. She pinched her eyes closed against the view of Sherlock's lifeless form and drew a deep breath. The air inside the room was stiff, damp with lingering fog, and smelled of chemical death. She couldn't keep Sterling there with Sherlock's body. She couldn't stay either. Time to get out.

About a dozen meters outside the door, she sunk to the ground, cradled Sterling close. The fear that she'd lost both of them had consumed her soul like a wildfire in the last few minutes. Sterling was _alive_. His heart beat because his father had been there. His stupid beautiful self-sacrificing father had saved him against all odds, and in the process had lost his own life. Nothing Natasha could do or think would take the mingled and utterly agonizing relief away. She would break completely. Later. When she didn't have to worry about the Russian hitmen who'd murdered her husband. Instead, tears trailed down her cheeks while she went over Sterling with wolfish caring. Rough and gentle all at once. Her hands smoothed over his back, she cupped his face, she scanned for wounds, she checked his pulse and his respiratory rate. He seemed fine. Eventually she pulled the mask off his face and pressed a tender kiss to his cheek. "It's okay to breathe, no more gas."

"Can I open my eyes now?" Sterling asked quietly. "Daddy said I had to keep them closed whatever happened."

Natasha's throat caught, her words would come out hoarsely. "Yes, baby, you can open your eyes now."

Sterling peeked his green eyes open, only focused on her. He sniffed, gently reaching out to touch her face. "I didn't mean to get taken away. I'm sorry, Mummy."

"We know you didn't mean to, _milaya_ ," she whispered, cupping his head and pressing their foreheads together. Totally unknowing that her husband had done the same in the terrifying minutes before he stopped breathing. "But it's not your fault. None of this is your fault, okay?"

Sterling's renewed tears flowed freely now, but he pushed through to get the words out, summoning a strength he'd learned from his parents. "Daddy…said he loves you. And he was…s-sorry. He said…" Sterling hiccuped. "He said it wasn't your fault either. He loves you and loves me, and…and…and that's why he isn't here."

"Baby, I…" Natasha could not hold herself together were simply no more words. She held Sterling close and just cried. Hours could have gone by, there was nothing else she could do. She wanted Sherlock here. She _needed_ him. She needed him to wrap them up and hold them close. She needed him to make a sassy quip about how there was work to do, no time for tears. She needed him to ask if he was doing everything right, and she _needed_ to tell him he'd done everything exactly right and that she'd spend the rest of her life reminding Sterling and herself how much Sherlock meant to them. And how much he'd done for them. Sherlock Holmes had saved so many people in so many ways.

"Natasha!" A new and familiar voice echoed through the metal corridor.

Before she'd even registered the newcomer's identity, she'd pulled out her gun and brought Sterling to her chest forcefully. The intruder couldn't be the only person she wanted to see. That man was dead. Wide teary green eyes, rimmed with red, fixed where she'd leveled the barrel of the gun.

Dressed in his uniform, with his shield on his back, Steve Rogers put both hands in the air, speaking gently to his old partner. "Just me. I promise. We got them, trying to escape the ship, they're not going anywhere. Bucky's covering."

Natasha lowered the gun but did not release Sterling, tucked where he was. He'd gone very silent and still. "Good, because I'm going to put a bullet in their heads."

"You can't-"

"I can, I will," she interrupted, so softly it took Steve off-guard. Like a growl. She glanced down the hall she'd come. "I…I need you to get him. Carry him out. I can't leave him…his body here another minute. He needs to come home now."

Steve didn't need the details. "Okay, I promise. We'll get them out first, before anything else."

Natasha closed her eyed and pressed her lips to Sterling's temple again. She found the strength to stand, gathered from the strands of her broken heart. Sterling couldn't stay here in this damp hellhole forever. She cradled him to her chest, glanced up at Steve, and then disappeared down the hall without a word. Headed for fresh air, bound for the ocean sky overhead and the dark looming future of a world without Sherlock Holmes. Natasha tucked her nose into the crook of Sterling's neck and breathed him in. Her words came next in a rush of air, like a quiet prayer to her angel. _I'll never forgive you for leaving me. But thank you for saving him._

* * *

Steve Rogers had been called by the now infamous Romanov-Holmes team earlier that day. Emergency situation, child in danger. He and Bucky had been working in Eastern Europe and it hadn't been more than an hour in the quinjet to where Natasha needed them. He didn't even think about hesitating.

There'd been so little information, and by the time they'd gotten there, Sherlock and Natasha were already hot on the trail of the group that had taken Sterling. In the meantime, he had adhered to Sherlock's orders, taking Bucky to track down the hitmen while they went to get their son, in case the men had taken the boy rather than leave him behind. They had been supposed meet again once Sterling was safe or when the kidnappers were found.

Steve hadn't expected to walk into the shaking woman he called a friend. A broken mess, mourning like her world had fallen apart. The boy was alive. That left only one other option as far as mission casualties. Sherlock.

He stepped quietly into the small chamber, coughing out the lingering chemical smell. Sherlock lay on his back with his arms at his sides and legs still crossed. His face was turned away from the door, outlining the sharpness of his cheekbone and nose in the dull white light. Steve took only a single moment of quiet respect before crouching down next to him. The clock still ticked. No time to linger.

Steve's heart hurt, however, in the full knowledge that Natasha had found her 'right partner' against all odds in the slimmest of chances. The right partner was a bit of an ass, but shone like a star. A man on fire. And through the struggles of the last decade of her joining SHIELD, they'd made a life together. He drew a deep breath. Without further hesitation, carefully scooped up Sherlock's lifeless body and carried him out of the airless hell.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mummy-"

"Sterling, I need you to stay in the jet. Please. I'll be right back, I promise."

Sterling's little hands gripped into her shirt, unwilling to let her go, unwilling to even think about leaving her side. Terrifed he'd never see her again. But Natasha was persistent. She had something to do and Sterling shouldn't have to see it. Fingers loosened, the boy was tucked into a bucket seat, and the widow darted away.

 _Bang, bang, bang, bang._

Four bodies dropped. Natasha Romanov-Holmes lowered the gun to her side. And with that, she had executed the four men responsible for Sherlock's death.

She felt nothing. No remorse, no relief, no pain, no pleasure. It wouldn't bring Sherlock back. It wouldn't undo what had been done. There was an ache, more of an emptiness in her soul, that would never be healed no matter what she did.

The flight back to London passed in silence. Natasha just held Sterling, carding fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Bucky and Steve spoke only enough to pilot the jet. She couldn't fathom telling Mycroft or John or Mary or Naomi or Zariah or Molly or Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock's parents or Greg. Sherlock Holmes had been loved deeply. Many would mourn his loss.

Sherlock's empty transport lay in the back. Just a couple meters away, respectfully covered with a blanket and strapped in. It was just his body, a shell of him. His brilliant mind, his fierce passionate heart and his expansive imagination were all gone.

Natasha peeked down at Sterling, her fingers stilling along his blotchy cheek. This little boy carried his father's name and brilliant mind. Part of Sherlock lived on in Sterling. Natasha had vowed years ago to love and cherish Sherlock Holmes until death parted them. She thought back then that she'd never be able to live a day without him. But that changed the moment they created this clever little boy. She had to continue on for their legacy. To protect him, guide him, love him. For the both of them.

Her eyes watered again, for the first time since Steve had found her in that hallway. It hit her so suddenly, there was no time to prepare. She pressed her lips into Sterling's messy hair, closed her eyes, and cried. Her whole body shook. To his credit, as trying as a day as it had been, Sterling slept through the whole thing. The rest of the flight, she'd stay like that, and by the time they landed she would attempt to gather her broken pieces.

Her next hurdle was telling the British Government she had failed his only request, that she hadn't brought Sherlock home safe.

The hours that passed after they landed in London were some of the hardest Natasha had ever experienced. She watched as people in dark uniforms brought Sherlock's body out of the quinjet and took it away. She faced Mycroft Holmes and told him his brother was dead. Even if he'd deduced it the moment he saw her, she had to say the words out loud. She couldn't hold eye contact very long. His eyes were too sorrowed, too deep, too much like Sherlock's. Different as they were. Different as they had been.

She knew he would take the news to his wife, a top level CIA director who he met in university, and their daughter, a joyful child of seven years old. Natasha was grateful. She wouldn't have managed. The pain and guilt were too much.

When she finally collapsed into their bed at 221B Baker Street, after two days of no sleep and caring for a very broken little boy, her mind only hosted nightmares. In years past, she'd curl into Sherlock's arms and they'd get through it together. But now she was alone. Sherlock's side of the bed was cold, his scent diminished from it. Sleeping wouldn't be an option.

She was truly a Black Widow. A dangerous creature whose actions had brought about the death of her mate.

Days past. Funeral arrangements were made. People stopped by. Natasha just stayed in the flat. She went nowhere, she didn't open the windows, she didn't let Sterling out of her sight either. They had both changed in these days. The boy was quiet, reserved, absently paging through books or cuddling with his stuffed animals. Conversation didn't happen at all either, and he only spoke 'thank you's to Mrs. Hudson when she tutted around in her usual way. Their landlady had gone above and beyond for them, fixing their meals, for as little as they ate, and ensuring the two of them cared for themselves. Natasha could barely manage anything, save a fierce hug of gratitude. One that left both of them in tears all over again.

Sterling would sleep in their bedroom, tucked in Sherlock's dressing gown. She would lay next to him, not sleeping. Sleep always brought nightmares. Nightmares she couldn't handle alone. The rare time she dozed off, she jolted herself awake and focused in on scrolling through the pictures on her phone.

She was glad she'd taken so many, despite Sherlock's occasional annoyance. She'd catch him at the microscope, with that intense look on his face. Or at the sink, pouring off one experimental substance or another, peeking down at Sterling, who'd be tugging on his dressing gown. There were pictures of Sherlock sitting on the floor when Sterling was so very young. Sherlock would work his cases and monitor their child at the same time, deciding he was nothing short of God himself for being able to multitask like that. Natasha had laughed when she'd taken that picture. The edges were just a bit blurry because of it. There were selfies too. Once Sterling had figured out it was a thing, there was no stopping him. Sterling had taken one picture just last month of Natasha and Sherlock dancing in the living room. Both wearing his dressing gowns in different colors and staring at each other like there was nothing else in the whole world.

Sherlock had called Natasha his enigmatic puzzle princess, one mystery that he'd never fully solve, a problem he didn't mind having, and a partner in work and life. Not a crack in his lens or the fly in the ointment.

Natasha let her finger hover over the picture, zooming in towards his face. The light from the fireplace had cast it in shadow, all sharp cheekbone, and bright eyes. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

It didn't get better after the funeral. Someone else had planned a service, thankfully it was kept very short. But England had delivered another rainy day. Natasha stood, dressed in black, with Sterling tucked in front of her, under an umbrella as the casket was lowered into the ground. The crowd was decent, bigger than Sherlock would probably have expected. Everyone who had cared about and respected him was there. Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper.

John Watson too was left in shock, pain, emptiness. He'd lost his best friend. Mary was there to hold him through it all. Their daughter Rosie was nearly too young to understand it. At just about three years old, she didn't know why Uncle Sherlock wasn't coming back. Mary was pregnant with their second then. Another child. One that would never know the intense and unique force of love that Sherlock Holmes had been.

Mycroft stood near their parents. A stiff presence in dark coat under a black umbrella. Next to him was his wife, a blue eyed, auburn haired force of a woman. Not too dissimilar from Natasha herself. Naomi Holmes, who held a top-secret job with the CIA, had kept up a quiet unexpressed sorrow, because she was currently holding up her husband and daughter through this entire event. Someone had to be the foundation. She kept gentle fingers running through the long hair of their seven year old daughter. Zariah had latched onto her mother's dark coat and not let go.

After the funeral was over, people lingered and dispersed. Until all that was left was the closest members of their family. A silence stretched between them, leaving room only for the sound of the rain on their umbrella canopy and the quiet chirps of birds to fill the air.

Mycroft did not look away from the gravesite. His voice, when he spoke, was hollow empty and pitched slightly higher than usual. "Natasha…Naomi and I have spoken. If you would like to move into our guest house, you are welcome to."

Naomi ran her free hand over Mycroft's back in soothing circles. "You'd have plenty of space," she said, peeking over at Natasha. "And Sterling could be close to Zariah. Away from… It doesn't have to be right now. The offer will stand."

Natasha's chest pinched painfully for what felt like the thousandth time that morning. Leaving Baker Street hadn't crossed her mind yet. How could it? But she felt Sherlock everywhere there. She _expected_ to see him. In their room, on the stairs, hunched over his laptop or the microscope. She glanced down at Sterling. The boy had closed his eyes and buried his face in the fabric of the tails of her blue scarf. Sherlock's scarf. It still smelled like him and she couldn't bear to lose that scent yet. Sterling would need something more than what they had at Baker Street. Things would have to change in time. Things always did.

She glanced back up at Naomi. "I appreciate your offer more than I can say. I…I need some more time."

Naomi smiled sadly, and with quiet understanding. "I know. The house is ready whenever you are."

Natasha turned away, holding Sterling just a little bit closer. Sherlock's body lay in the ground now. This was meant to be their good-bye. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't think I'll ever be ready."


	4. Chapter 4

_\- Twenty Years Later -_

"Zariah! Is James coming to the concert tonight?" Sterling called into her old bedroom at the Holmes manor.

A sigh prequelled the response. "He's working again tonight and couldn't change his schedule, they're short staffed at the hospital." The twenty-seven-year-old Zariah Holmes stepped out of the bathroom, having just put the finishing touches on her makeup. Her dress was maroon and lace, and her black heels put her near eye to eye with her twenty-five-year-old cousin. She smiled a bit. "He sends his love though."

"Sure he does, if he could sit still through the thing without cracking a joke," Sterling quipped. He gestured to his neck, where a bow tie hung untied, as he stepped his lanky frame into the room. The rest of his black-tie tuxedo was rather sharp. "And I need help. Your dad was somewhere else and I didn't want to track him down."

"Second choice, I feel loved. It's a big house," Zariah quipped, hands making smooth work of the bowtie. "I miss it since I went university. But didn't think asking James to have us move in with my parents was the best idea."

"Probably not," Sterling agreed with a quiet chuckle. "Sorry that I'm missing the pre-concert party too. I know Mum was going to be there. At least I think she was. Considering what day it is, I'm not so sure."

The sixth of January. Sherlock Holmes' birthday. A man twenty years dead.

Zariah finished the bow tie and gave Sterling a sad smile. They'd been so young when Sherlock had died, giving up his life for Sterling's. The years following hadn't been easy for any of them. Sterling had gone through counseling for years. But Zariah still knew it sat in his mind. How could it not? She wrapped him up in a hug and squeezed him gently. "She's going to be at the concert. It's your big debut. She wouldn't miss it for the world." She pulled back to look him in the eyes. "None of us would."

Sterling took a deep breath. "I'm just one of the youngest composers to write an entire symphony for the London Symphony Orchestra and to perform it with them as Concertmaster…no big deal."

Zariah smiled knowingly. "Of course not. You'll do amazing, it's just the performance of all the hard work and practice you've done thus far."

"Thanks, Zariah, I'm glad I've got you."

"As you should be."

* * *

Zariah met her parents for the pre-concert cocktail party involving several key government players. Zariah had finished university with a degree in foreign affairs and politics and had asserted herself into the government with the help of her father. Being groomed to take his place as omniscient conductor of all government affairs upon his retirement, she'd settled into the role with passion and zeal.

She swept through the room, mingling and smiling her hellos in the crowd as she circled back to them.

Mycroft and Naomi Holmes were twenty years older, and it showed in wrinkles and greying hair. They were both in their sixties and in relatively good health. A scare with cancer had set Naomi back a few years previous, but she was currently cancer-free and doing well. Her navy blue dress was elegantly cut to accentuate her figure. Her hair had been chopped shorter and she'd continued to dye it the same dark shade of auburn she'd had when she'd been younger. Mycroft wore a matching suit with silver and red accents. He checked his pocket watch.

"Auntie Nat isn't here," Zariah said as a greeting, sidling up to her mother.

"Understandable," Naomi replied quietly. "The concert doesn't start for another hour and it's just unnecessary mingling as far as she's concerned. Too many people."

Zariah sighed softly, as always carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Too much like her father.

Mycroft slipped his pocket watch back into its place and took Naomi's hand. "She'll be here soon, I'm sure. Don't worry."

"I can't help it."

"We know, darling," Naomi answered gently, reaching to pull Zariah closer for an embrace. There were very few words. Twenty years had flown by. And sometimes, after one was lost, people just weren't the same.

* * *

Out in the chill of the January evening air, a lone woman stood in a deserted graveyard. It had changed over time. Trees had grown. Stones had faded. Flowers had been replanted. But one thing that had not changed was whose body lay in the ground underneath an ever-growing elm.

The wind picked up greying red hair and the tails of the black trench coat she wore, but everything else about here was still as the statue of the angel a dozen meters away. In her hand was a single red rose.

Twenty years had worn down Natasha Romanov-Holmes like water does to rock. She'd never expected to make it this long. Fifty years old had been a silly dream when she'd been training in the Red Room. Weapons like her didn't last long. She would have been snuffed out eventually. Sherlock had saved her life when he pulled her from that hell just prior to the notorious graduation ceremony. He'd given her purpose and redemption with connections to S.H.I.E.L.D. He'd given her friendship when she never thought she could have something like that. They had been two misunderstood and broken creatures at the time.

And when he'd saved her, when she saved him, she'd never thought she'd have to live without him again. They were running together like a pack of wolves. Eternally running.

Yet there he was. His body in the ground, his name etched into a black headstone, his life gone.

She had never fully recovered. Some years prior, an acquaintance tried to hook her up on a date. Clint was fourteen years her senior and ended up being an arsehole who slipped out of his wedding ring for the blind date, hoping to get into her pants. Natasha hadn't taken kindly to that. In the end, there had been a bruise on her knuckles to prove it. That had been the end of that date, that acquaintance, and any other pathetic attempt to find distraction in dating. She only ever compared them to Sherlock. It had been stupid and foolish to try.

Natasha lived for their son and her career. She devoted everything to ensuring he had what he needed to excel. They'd moved into the guest house on the Holmes estate after Sterling's sixth birthday. And they'd lived there until Sterling had moved off to university. By that point, Natasha didn't feel like she needed all that space anymore. Her new work at the Royal Ballet Academy called for a shorter commute anyways. Mrs. Hudson's age had caught up with her and she needed someone around. 221B Baker Street was once again open.

Natasha Romanov-Holmes moved back into the flat, thirteen years after Sherlock's death.

Over the years, John and Mary Watson had been devoted friends. Their daughters, Rosie and Kendra Sherlock Watson, were both forces to be reckoned with. They had spent hours playing with Sterling and Zariah in the grounds of the Holmes house. Rosie had just turned twenty-three and Kendra would be twenty this year. They were both in university. Rosie, however, was on her way to medical school. Their parents were proud of them both.

Life had moved on without Sherlock, but his presence was felt nevertheless.

Natasha tore her gaze away from the headstone to look down at the rose in her hand. Beautiful and fragile as the flower was, it was a tradition. Her Rose for Sherlock. She smoothed gloved fingers over the petals.

" _I miss you,_ " she said in Russian. _"We had Christmas with Mycroft, Naomi, and Zariah this year. John, Mary and the girls came over too. It was nice. Quiet. You would have liked it. Sterling played his violin for us, Christmas hymns. I cried again. I always do. I can still hear your voice in my head, questioning or teasing me about it…"_ she paused, trying to gather herself. _"Sterling has a concert tonight. His own composition performed with the London Symphony Orchestra. You'd be so proud of him. He is amazing. And so quick and clever. Music just comes to him. You were right. He is a prodigy. I just wish you'd been here to help him make the most of it."_ She sniffed. _"He reminds me of you every day. His mind works so quickly, and the twinkle in his eye when he's on a path to something. I love it so much."_

Natasha closed the distance to the headstone, crouching down to rest her forehead against the cold hardness. She left the rose on the ground, right by the date of his birth, fifty-eight years ago. " _I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I will never stop."_

* * *

Sterling stood backstage, a contained bundle of nerves, waiting as the minutes ticked by to the seven o'clock start time. The other musicians mingled. They were of all ages, but Sterling had felt a bit like an outsider in their rehearsals. Even if he was greatly respected and appreciated. Zariah and the Watson girls had always been his closest friends. There was just something about being known and _seen_ without having to explain what he had been through.

He glanced down at the old violin in his hand. He was able to pull sounds from it that many newer violins couldn't quite make, rich and full, smooth as velvet. Ancient, with stories to tell. The instrument had a pleasant aroma of resin and wood. It took him back to memories long passed. It was well cared for, having been passed into his possession a decade and a bit previous.

It had been his dad's.

Sterling adjusted his tuxedo and straightened his posture as the musicians started lining up. His music tonight was meant to express, move, and make people think. But it was in memory of his father. And he wanted every note to count.

A smile not too dissimilar to Sherlock Holmes' crossed his face as Sterling stepped into the light of the stage.

* * *

"Your composer and guest concertmaster for the evening: Sterling Romanov-Holmes."

The crowd applauded enthusiastically as the young man took a bow. His violin in one hand and a smile he couldn't contain on his face.

"And now, _The Name of the Rose, a Symphony in Parts_ "

Natasha had made it just in time, walking down the aisle just as her son bowed for his introduction. She couldn't help but smile in return. He looked so sharp in the tuxedo and proud smile. His curly dark hair was shorter than usual, and his green eyes twinkled in the stage lights.

Natasha's windswept hair had been tamed and the chill had only left her nose a bit pink. Though that might have been the tears shed. The lights dimmed, no one would be able to tell. She slipped into the seat next to Zariah near the front of the theatre.

"Glad you could make it," Zariah said quietly.

Natasha squeezed her hand. "Of course."

Naomi smiled at her too from the next seat over, and the four of them turned their attention to the concert. _The Name of the Rose._ Sterling's music was elegant and moving, and every bit of it spoke of his influence. Both in his studies and what he'd learned on his own. He had not shown them any of it before, except for the first movement, which had been inspired by a solo he'd written for Christmas a few years previous. Each of the movements had names. Natasha hadn't seen them yet.

As the concert progressed, she turned the lengthy program to read through the composer's notes and soloist information. The names of the movements were beautiful. And familiar. Bits of Sterling's life were ingrained into this work. As if he had barred his soul with it, exposing it to the ears of the audience. As a mother, she could tell and it touched her heart in ways she'd never be able to explain.

She didn't tear up until she saw the second to last movement's name.

 _His Father's Arms._

Her hand went to her mouth and she stifled a cry behind it. Zariah was right there. The young woman wrapped her arm around her aunt to hold her close. Natasha leaned into the embrace and breathed through the sudden wave of emotion that bubbled up within her.

The piece began after a pause. It was in a minor key to start. The cellos dragging out a deep constant sound, with the undertone of the bass below. Sterling stood up for another solo. He drew a long high note from the violin. Natasha would later realize it had been Sherlock's old one that she had given Sterling so many years ago. The music soared to new heights as Sterling took control of the piece. Everyone in the room was enthralled, engaged. Although only very few knew the true story. What had been news twenty years ago, was now just factoid and a Wikipedia article, whispers when people recognized a name. Sterling, however, told the story through music. He told of how his father wrapped him in his arms and saved his life, sacrificing everything.

Sterling may as well as have written it on the side of a building. It was right there. Natasha felt it. To the point where she could not stop crying. She had been taken right back there to the moment she'd pulled their little boy free of Sherlock's strong but dead embrace.

But she wasn't left there. The piece ended only to transition into something else. Into the final movement of Sterling's debut symphony.

The final piece was called _Breathe._ It was just as beautiful as all the others had been and strung themes from the previous movements all together in one growing mass of musical joy. Like a hope of something unseen and unexperienced. Natasha didn't bother reading the program, for her eyes were riveted to her son. Sterling played from his first violin chair, enchanted with the music he'd created. Moved by it so that every bit of him sang with its magic until the very end.

Natasha couldn't have been prouder.

She could have sworn a voice whispered in her ear as the crowd stood to give the final applause. She had stood as well, cheering for her brilliant boy. But the _voice_ , the voice was a familiar baritone, deep and beautiful. Maybe it had been the music. Or something in her mind. She would go to her grave hearing that voice. _Sherlock_. She closed her eyes and let the words caress her like familiar fingertips on her cheek.

 _"Well done, lyubimyi, my beloved. I am so proud of the man he turned out to be. I love you, both of you. I'm waiting. Don't hurry…"_


End file.
